The Treacherous Heart
by xstormqueenx
Summary: When an old face from Sherlock's past turns up on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street, the game is afoot and the war of the heart begins. {The Abominable Bride, AU}.
1. A Pestiferous Prologue

**Author's Note:** Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

* * *

 **A Pestiferous Prologue**

 _1885_

"Why the dickens are you following me!?" Sherlock hissed over his shoulder at Clara, his educated tones at odds with his shabby appearance.

"Do not use that name in vain," Clara hissed back, angered by his blaspheming of her literary god.

"Do you not observe that I am in the midst of solving a case?" Sherlock snapped, ignoring her reprimand. "I do not need some clergyman's daughter sending my deductions into disarray!"

Clara primly pursed her lips together, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders, discreetly studying his latest disguise, taking in the broad floppy hat, its low brim shielding his unnervingly piercing gaze from the unsuspecting world he scrutinized, his face wreathed in shadows and less poetically so with dirt, his clothes unfit for even the rag-man. "What exactly are you meant to be this time?" she asked, brow furrowing.

"An exhibit from Madame Tussauds," Sherlock said from between gritted blackened teeth, particularly proud of how he'd eliminated his bicuspids from view. "I'm meant to be one of the Squire's ostlers," he then explained impatiently, irritated by Clara's still confused face. "Why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be on your knees, asking God to forgive you for your petty sins, before Mama dearest tucks you in for the night?"

"I glanced out of my bedroom window, and upon seeing you creeping through my father's best begonias, I felt compelled to investigate," Clara said stiffly, "you are not the only one to feel the lure of mystery."

"Well, take your temptation somewhere else," Sherlock said, standing up, "you're obstructing the pursuit of my own perplexity."

"Where are you going?" Clara pressed, following him. "What exactly are you investigating this time?"

"The case that will make my career," Sherlock said loftily, "the one that will raise me high above the ham-fisted imbeciles who inhabit this village. I shall not have to look upon your whey-faced visage anymore, Clara Collins; it will become a distant memory amongst the dazzling metropolis that is London" -

\- "Whey-faced!?" Clara snapped, drawing herself to her full height, a rather intimidating five feet one inches, a diminutive size Sherlock often liked to sneer at. "I shall give you whey-faced, Sherlock Holmes!"

"Are you threatening me?" Sherlock said, rounding on her. "If so, you're doing a damned rather bad job of it."

"I don't know why I trouble myself with you," Clara said in disbelief, "why I expend the effort" -

\- "Then don't," Sherlock said cruelly, "our childish friendship holds no worth now, so let it die with some dignity, instead of humiliating yourself by throwing yourself at my head time and time again."

"You _flatter_ yourself, sir" -

\- "I _observe_ , madam," Sherlock hissed, "and I observe that you are labouring under the delusion you mean something to me, when you do not, and you never did."

Clara stared at him, her lips trembling, his words striking her heart like a knife. From the moment she had taken her first steps, she had followed Sherlock around like his shadow, the little boy barely tolerating her, annoyed at her infantile behaviour even as he arrogantly accepted her admiration. Having no siblings meant she had clung to Sherlock all the more growing up, her only defence against loneliness, Sherlock isolating himself further from her even as he allowed her to enjoy what he considered his exalted company.

But now as a young woman, her fractured friendship with Sherlock was frowned upon by her father and mother, no longer seeing their relationship as that of brother and sister, but something more dangerous. They did not view him as an eligible _parti_ for their precious child; Sherlock was no suitable suitor for their only daughter, not when Clara had been so delicately reared and was so reserved, Sherlock's strange behaviour and outspoken manner insulting them and the entire village.

But Sherlock's conduct towards Clara could not be construed as lover-like, and Clara didn't care for him that way. Her romantic sighs were strictly reserved for the Squire's eldest son, a match that even the matriarch of the Collins family didn't dare dream to aspire to. Yet Clara continued in her attempts to break down Sherlock's barriers, sensing there was something worth winning, despite the dragons. She believed she could reach him when nobody else could, but here he stood before her, cutting himself asunder from her affection.

"You... _beast_ ," Clara said, shaking from head to foot now, "you vile ghastly brute! Mycroft was correct about you" -

\- "Have you seen my dear brother's impression of you?" Sherlock said suddenly, startling Clara. "It goes something rather like this." He tucked his arms in, before waddling around in circles, looking rather like a constipated hen.

Clara stared at him for a moment, dark eyes burning like black fire, and then she suddenly sprung at him, catching him offguard, knocking him to the ground, the two of them struggling like savages, screaming and shouting, Sherlock losing his hat in the fray, his black curls falling over his eyes, blinding him as Clara tried to, her nails raking his face.

"Have you lost all sense of sanity!?" Sherlock yelled, wrestling her onto her back, his weight pinning her down, his fingers forming manacles around her wrists. "Contain yourself, woman!"

Clara's answer to this was to sink her teeth into his hand, making him yell again, letting her go for a moment, Clara rearing up, Sherlock hastily grabbing her wrists again, forcing her back down, wondering how on earth he was going to extricate himself from this twisted embrace without falling victim to Clara's cannibalistic tendencies.

"I apologize!" Sherlock bellowed, his voice ringing through the night. "I _am_ a veritable beast, the lowest of the low, grovelling in the dirt with the worms, my brothers" -

\- "Mycroft is hardly worm-like," Clara spat, thinking of Mycroft's growing girth, "in mind yes, but body no."

Sherlock stared down at her, taking in her shadowed face and tumbled brown hair, barely recognizing the decorous Clara Collins in the wildcat before him, before suddenly laughing, that roar of amusement that always strangely caught at Clara's heart. "Quite the succinct observation - I must have taught you something after all," he said, finally letting go of her, sensing she wouldn't strike him again.

"You are a _dunderhead_ ," Clara gasped, her corset painfully cutting into her flesh, "and that is all I have to say on the subject."

"Good," Sherlock said smartly, "I do not admire loquacity, the wastage of words" -

\- "So says the most voluble man in the village," Clara said abruptly, "now let me up, I promise I shall be most proper."

"This is all actually most improper," Sherlock said uneasily, only just realising the rather scandalous situation they were in, "rather indecent in fact."

"I couldn't put it better myself," Clara's father said, his voice cracking, making Sherlock and Clara's heads snap up, only to see what appeared to be half the village assembled behind him, their shocked stares sentencing Sherlock to wedlock.


	2. Sin & Sinner

**Sin & Sinner**

 _Ten years later_

As the populace swarmed past like driver ants, the clatter of horse hooves and carriages filling the air, Clara stood on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street, her heart thudding in her chest, snow swirling around her like a cloak, the cold making her woollen mittened hands involuntarily clench. She had no desire to be here, having no desire for the husband she'd parted from nine years before, with no desire to cast herself on his rather doubtful charity. Yet desperation had driven her here, Clara down to her last few shillings, clutching all that was left to her in the world, an old carpetbag containing her few belongings and a change of clothes.

Whilst the world had whispered of Sherlock Holmes and his astonishing skills of observation and deduction, Clara had cut herself off from his legend, assuming a false name, masquerading as a widow of limited means, offering her services as governess to the offspring of the mercantile classes. She had made her living serving new money, but it had been a precarious existence that had now reduced her to a perilous one.

She had no family to fall back upon, and no friends either; during the first year of their marriage, a measles epidemic had swept through the village, killing her parents, as well as most of their acquaintances and petty enemies, utterly decimating the hamlet, Clara still inwardly shaking from the shock even now. She and Sherlock had parted soon afterwards, the threat of public and parental disapproval now removed, having neither love or nor even liking to hold them together, only hating one another.

Their marriage had been made to satisfy convention, to right the rules they'd apparently broken with their appalling conduct, having been caught in a compromising situation. The commotion they'd made had drawn half the village out of their beds, expecting to find a murder taking place, only to find Sherlock and Clara scandalously entangled together, on the verge of committing carnal sin. The only remedy was marriage, or Clara would have been cast out of all decent society, left to fend for herself, Sherlock banished to the beyond, Mycroft rubbing his hands together with glee at the prospect like a pantomime villain.

But Sherlock had unwillingly agreed to marry Clara, Clara even more unwillingly agreeing to marry him. She could have taken her chances on some far off city's streets, duelling with her destiny like one of Dickens's heroines, but pragmatism had won out over poetry. It was better the devil she knew, and she knew Sherlock, the knowledge tearing them apart in the end.

There had been no affection, only animosity, and Clara had broken all conventions by separating from Sherlock, only accepting enough money from Mycroft to tide her over until she found employment, Mycroft providing her with the necessary references and illusions for her new identity. It had been Mycroft who'd manipulated her like a marionette, exploiting her desire for freedom to his greatest advantage, simply wanting rid of her. After her marriage, she'd questioned his every move, defying him at every turn, attempting to undermine his authority, Sherlock shamelessly encouraging her, wielding her as a weapon against his brother, so Mycroft had not been above seizing the opportunity to offload her onto someone else, despite the potential threat of scandal tainting his political ambitions.

Consequently, Mycroft had kept tabs on her, watching her every move, particularly as Sherlock's star ascended, much to his surprise, having never believed Sherlock would amount to anything, expecting Clara to exploit his little brother's fame for her own mercenary ends. But to his even greater surprise, she had kept coldly and deliberately silent, her employers little dreaming that the dowdy governess on their payrolls was the wife of the man they talked over their cigars and brandy about, marvelling at his skill in solving apparently unsolvable cases.

As she hesitated on Sherlock's doorstep, Mycroft had just received a telegram informing him Clara had absconded from her current employer's abode, disappearing into the darkness, the aforementioned employer hitting the metaphorical roof of his sprawling mansion, the information making Mycroft get to his feet, knocking over his early morning cognac, much to his butler's barely hidden dismay.

"Don't be a coward, Clara," she admonished herself, forcing herself to forget the memory of why she was here, setting it aside until she could scream and cry at her leisure over it. There was steel in Clara's soul, a hardness hidden by her demure exterior, unobserved by even the great Sherlock Holmes until it was almost too late.

She raised her hand, readying herself to smartly rap the knocker, feigning a self-possession she didn't feel, only for the door to suddenly open, revealing a small woman of a certain age, clad in a gown of a fashionable shade of violet that made Clara all too aware of the drably serviceable dark brown serge of her travelling dress.

"Can I help you, dear?" the woman asked, eyebrows climbing up her forehead as she appraised Clara's shabby appearance, judging her against the usual kind of female clientele that came to try their luck with Sherlock. This particular specimen with her wide brown eyes and modestly folded hands sat at odds with her more gaudy sisters, Mrs. Hudson priding herself on separating the piffle from the fiddle-faddle, something that never made sense.

"I wish to speak with Mr. Holmes," Clara said stiffly, suddenly self-conscious over her bonnetless state, "if that is possible - please."

Mrs. Hudson eyed the frayed sleeves of Clara's black coat, noting how the fabric had been turned at least twice, but neatly mended for all that. "He's not home at the moment," she said, beginning to close the door on Clara, "try tomorrow or next week."

"Please, I'm not a confidence trick," Clara said impulsively, springing forwards, startling Mrs. Hudson, "nor am I collecting for missionaries or such spiels. I earnestly and urgently desire an audience with Mr. Holmes."

"We get all sorts here," Mrs. Hudson said abruptly, "even a shy looking little thing like you could be a con. Mr. Holmes doesn't like me admitting just anyone, especially when he isn't here." She emphasized the last line, all but telling Clara to cut and run, only for her head to snap up as a carriage drew up beside the pavement, the sight of its occupants making her suddenly rush forwards, a little boy in a shirt and waistcoat that looked too big for him, appearing out of almost thin air and following in her footsteps. "Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson admonished, gathering up her skirts as she moved through the swirling snow, "I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home."

Before Sherlock could frame an answer, his grey gaze fell upon Clara almost blending into the brickwork, the sight making him freeze, uncharacteristically caught off-guard, automatically noting every detail from the loose tendrils of dark hair curling around her face, down to the lost button on her scuffed boots. "Oh," he said almost stupidly, removing the pipe from his mouth as he spoke, "I see my sins have come home to roost."


	3. No Rest For The Wicked

**No Rest For The Wicked**

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Hudson said, confused.

"Never mind," Sherlock said, recovering himself, "what were you saying?"

"That I wish you would let me know when you're planning to come home," Mrs. Hudson repeated, brushing the snow off his shoulders, an intimate yet useless gesture instantly noted by Clara.

"I hardly knew myself, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said loftily as Watson clambered out of the carriage behind him, paying the driver his fare, "that's the problem with dismembered country squires, they're notoriously difficult to schedule."

"Did you catch a murderer, Mr. Holmes?" Billy asked imperiously, exalted with his own importance at being Mr. Holmes's right hand man – or so Sherlock let him believe, uncharacteristically humouring the child. The little boy had been hired to help Mrs. Hudson around 221B Baker Street, but his burdens were light, Sherlock seeing it was so. As for now, he impatiently shifted from one small foot to another, eying Watson's hand luggage with wonder.

"Caught the murderer, still looking for the Lakes," Sherlock said confidentially, discreetly signalling Clara with his pipe to follow him into the house, "I think we'll call it a draw."

"What's in there?" Billy asked Watson, reaching for the bags, his fingers flexing in anticipation of uncovering their secrets.

"Never you mind," Watson said smartly, craning his neck as Clara went into the house, lifting her skirts as she went. "Who's the drab?" he asked Mrs. Hudson, who had now stepped in front of him, almost blocking his way.

"Some new case probably," Mrs. Hudson said, dismissing Clara from her thoughts for the time being, "and I noticed you published another one of your stories, Dr. Watson."

"Yes," Watson said, forcing a jocular smile, knowing where this was going. "Did you enjoy it?"

Mrs. Hudson hesitated, pretending to ponder his question. "No," she said abruptly, before turning and heading into the house, leaving Watson unceremoniously alone.

After traversing the somewhat perilous staircase, Clara came to a stop in the dark and narrow vestibule, the air close, the combination of black wallpaper and walnut wood panelling putting her in mind of a funeral parlour. There was barely any opportunity for natural light to enter the house, creating corners where anything might lurk. Sherlock stood with his back deliberately turned to her, taking his time in hanging up his cape and deerstalker hat, all but refusing to acknowledge her presence.

Billy barged past Clara, clipping her elbow, nearly knocking her sideways, emphasizing the cramped conditions Sherlock now lived in. Clara clutched her carpet-bag tighter, silently willing Sherlock to turn around, to do something, anything, even if it was only to insult her.

"Well, I never say anything, do I?" Mrs. Hudson argued in response to Watson's disgruntled questioning over why she didn't enjoy his depiction of her in his stories. "According to you I only show people up the stairs and serve you breakfast."

"Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function," Watson explained not for the first time, hanging up his bowler hat on the ornate peg, casting Clara another curious glance. Despite her windblown appearance and dowdy taste in dresses, up close, she was rather pretty in a country girl kind of way, which in his book was enough to merit one of his winning smiles, Clara parrying it with a patronizing smile of her own.

"My _what!?_ " Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, hand flying dramatically to her bosom, just missing Clara's face by inches.

"Don't feel singled out, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said lightly, finally turning around, "I'm hardly in the dog one."

"The dog one?" Clara said before she could stop herself, making everybody stare at her.

"Yes, the dog one," Sherlock said slowly, as though addressing an imbecile, making Clara colour angrily.

"Well, I'm your landlady, not a plot device," Mrs. Hudson said, sticking her nose up into the air, before sweeping past Clara.

"I would wager my best pipe that she spent all week thinking up such a riposte," Sherlock said to Watson, who just raised an eyebrow, before turning to Clara.

"He means by the dog one, _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ of course," he said with another winning smile, "one of my... stories." He smoothed down his moustache, striking what he plainly thought was an intellectual pose. "I take it you are familiar with my works, then?" he said rather forwardly, raising an eyebrow, expecting the usual gush of fervent praise.

Clara glanced at Sherlock, but he'd turned his back on her again, Clara irreverently noticing he'd cut his curls off, his hair now restrained and slicked back. "Your illustrator appears to be abusing the privileges that accompany artistic licence," she said pertly, "he's made you at least twice the size you are. I was expecting Dr. John Watson to be of rather Herculean proportions, and here I am, only to find myself confronted by a mere mortal."

"But his moustache has taken on godlike dimensions," Sherlock said, turning around again. "I hope that remedies the deficiency of your destroyed expectations."

"Not even the most exemplary example of facial hair could resurrect my so called destroyed expectations," Clara retorted, stung by his sarcasm.

"I shall take that as my cue to start work," Sherlock said, taking her arm before steering her into the sitting room, something in his face warning Watson not to follow, "there is no rest for the wicked, eh?"


	4. A Fractured Melody

**Author's Note:** A trailer for _The Treacherous Heart_ can be found on Youtube under **_girlinashipwreck_** or **'the treacherous heart' sherlock (clara oc) fanfiction trailer**.

* * *

 **A Fractured Melody**

"Why are you here, Clara?" Sherlock demanded, rounding on her as he closed the door behind him, agate eyes alight with anger, intimidating Clara despite herself.

"Where should I start?" Clara snapped, trying to stand her ground.

"From the beginning."

"But you already know my beginning."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his gaze travelling over her again, noting her unbrushed hair and the uncharacteristic creases in her travelling dress, the mud staining its hem and her petticoats. "You're in trouble," he said abruptly, "enough to drive you back into my arms anyways."

"And isn't that an entrancing prospect," Clara said from between gritted teeth, setting her carpet-bag down on the table.

"Most repulsive actually," Sherlock said, picking up his pipe, "it was most fortunate we never cultivated a taste for the marital bed."

"We never even had a marital bed."

"Beware my blushing cheeks," Sherlock said dryly, recalling his wedding night spent sleeping on a hard floor.

"I shall not waste anymore of your obviously valuable time," Clara said stiffly, colouring hotly, "I was very recently in the employ of "– She named a Conservative peer who was very close to Lord Salisbury, impressing even Sherlock against his will. "Yes, like you, I have risen through the ranks of my profession," she said, pacing the floor now, "but I climbed too high. As of last night, he... he attempted to force himself on my person." The colour mounted higher on her cheeks, her words making Sherlock suddenly start forwards, feeling the first jolt of genuine emotion since he'd set eyes on her, Clara freezing, startled by his response.

"Are... are you alright?" Sherlock said, dropping his hand to his side, forcing himself to focus, divorcing himself from such a treacherous tide of feeling.

"I am otherwise unharmed," Clara said, her hands shaking now, belying her words, "but... but during the heat of the moment, I said I would expose him to the gutter press – he claims to exhort Christian values, the very embodiment of morality, but in reality, he carouses and debauches" -

\- "And I imagine he wouldn't like this to come to the greater public's attention," Sherlock said, sitting down, "pray, continue."

"He threatened me with the workhouse, hangman's noose, prison and the asylum all in the one breath," Clara said, her voice cracking, "and while I take them to be empty threats, I do not make the mistake of believing he would not seek revenge if I were to take steps to secure mine. I – I have nothing but the clothes I stand up in. My few worldly possessions are limited to this carpet-bag – everything else I owned, the rest of my clothes and so forth, was left behind during my wild flight here. I could not stay under the same roof with that" -

\- "I understand," Sherlock said shortly, indicating with his pipe for her to take a seat.

"I am penniless apart from a few shillings," Clara continued, sitting down beside him, tears springing to her eyes, "and I cannot seek new employment – he has no doubt seen fit to ruin my reputation, ensuring nobody will hire me ever again. The influence he wields is astonishing – that is why I could not turn to Mycroft for help. I do not believe your brother would appreciate me putting him in such a position" -

\- "You must never go to Mycroft for help," Sherlock said abruptly, startling her, "not ever again, do you understand?"

Clara stared at him, confused.

"Do you understand?" Sherlock snapped, making her flinch.

Clara nodded, biting her lip.

"As my wife, you are my property, and such property is entitled to protection – if I see fit to grant it," Sherlock said coldly, every word striking her like whiplash. "Is that the essence of your argument in explaining your presence here?"

Clara nodded again, clenching her fists by her sides.

"As my spouse, I can do as I please with you," Sherlock said, standing up, looming over her, "apparently I can beat you with a stick no longer than my finger, force you to accept my amorous attentions – yet you return to me. Is being my wife so preferable to scraping out an existence on the streets outside?"

Clara met his gaze head-on, light duelling with darkness. "It is better the devil you know," she said, repeating her words from ten years ago, "and I know you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Do you really?" Sherlock said mockingly, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Do you know me?" Clara countered. "You thought you did that night until I attacked you – in that moment, you didn't recognize me. You saw but you didn't see."

"I have observed you since you were a prattling infant," Sherlock said, turning his pipe over in his hands almost absentmindedly, "flattering myself I knew your soul better than my own, holding that inferior instrument in my hands, learning to play the fractured melody that was Clara Collins. But there was a song within that song, one I could not comprehend, whose notes escaped me. Yet I know you now – I fancy I have finally learned your song, Clara Holmes."

Clara just stared up at him, her jaw tightening. She had barely been here for ten minutes, yet he was already pluming himself on finally having her like a moth on a pin, catalogued and contained **.** But she held her tongue, not wanting to burn down the only shelter she had left.

"You seek my protection," Sherlock said tiredly, making for the door, "and I shall grant you it. But I do not expect anything in return from you, only your discretion. As you undoubtedly know, I reside in the public eye now. Your presence here will not go on unnoticed. But I shall cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, I ask you not to encourage attention, that you stay in the shadows."

"I shall endeavour to satisfy your requirements," Clara said stiffly, her voice cracking, "and... and I shall not seek to interfere with your arrangements here or your work. I shall be unobtrusive, Sherlock." The name felt odd on her lips, almost too intimate.

"Good," Sherlock said abruptly, "now all I have to do is drop this particular bombshell on Watson. It is fortunate I have always enjoyed a fireworks show."


	5. Home & Hearth

**Home & Hearth **

" _Your wife?_ " Watson said incredulously, doing a double-take.

"Pray lower your voice," Sherlock hissed, pacing the floorboards, "I do not wish the whole world to learn of my folly."

"Folly?" Watson said, raising his eyebrows. "That's rather harsh."

"My marriage was a union arranged against my will," Sherlock snapped, "Clara's too. We were caught in a compromising situation, Clara effectively ruined by my apparent lechery. The only other alternative was penury and poverty. I made my choice and so did she. However, she does not have the luxury of choice now, nor has she the spirit to seek out a second chance" -

\- "Maybe her spirit has been broken," Watson pointed out, "it hardly sounds like she's been happy."

"She was happy to escape me," Sherlock said tersely, "however she seeks to shackle herself to Sherlock Holmes once again, and I have reluctantly agreed to such an unsavoury arrangement. Under such circumstances, I see no other option but to agree."

Watson nodded, looking grave at what Sherlock had told him of Clara's story, what had happened to her. "You do realise though the press are going to have a field day when they find out you have a wife hidden away?" he said, rumpling up his freshly barbered hair with agitated fingers.

"They are not going to know," Sherlock said, his gaze meeting and holding Watson's, "what I have imparted shall not leave these four walls, and you shall not put it in one of your... stories. Although, of course you can confide in Mary"-

\- "With your permission, I shall tell Mary - there has never been any secrets between us, but I have no intention of betraying your confidence in any other form," Watson flared up, secretly wondering when he would have the opportunity to speak to his wife, since they were rarely in the same room nowadays, "I am insulted you would even suspect me of such an act. This is not a case for public consumption – this is your private business" -

\- "Please," Sherlock said, halting him with his hand, "I know you would not betray my trust. I was merely outlining what I intend to do."

"And what exactly do you intend to do?" Watson said stiffly.

"I am going to follow your literary example," Sherlock said, sitting down, "and concoct a tale of true love and high adventure. Clara and I were childhood sweethearts, but alas, fate conspired to tear us apart, and she married another. Now a widow, Mrs. Harte - that all too convenient alias she adopted to escape me – our paths recently crossed again wherein old ardours were breathlessly reawakened, resulting in a whirlwind bridal on the banks of Lake Windermere."

"But" -

\- "But I have facilitated all the necessary deceptions," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers, "all the necessary paperwork, certificates and so forth, witnesses and whatnot. I have tried to stick to the truth as much as possible – Clara was earning a competence by working as a respectable instructress and again so forth. I have also taken the necessary precautions in regards to her former employer and my dear brother. They shall not be troubling us anytime soon, not unless they wish to have their reputations ripped apart."

"Mycroft?"

"Mycroft is the great advocate of home and hearth," Sherlock said lightly, "he has to be if he wishes to retain our dear sovereign's favour. If it came to be known he had orchestrated the destruction of my marriage, encouraging Clara to lay waste to my domestic idyll, well, I think that facile imagination of yours could conjure up the consequences better than any words of mine could. Vicky has become rather... nettlesome in her old age. If he had encouraged Clara to stay and suffer, he would be rewarded for entrapping the angel in the house, that cage of my keeping."

"I wager he was less than overjoyed though at the knowledge of your 'nuptials' though," Watson said astutely whilst wondering not for the first time at the astonishing speed Sherlock worked at. Whilst he'd been admiring his moustache in the hall mirror from every conceivable angle, bored out of his mind, Sherlock had been orchestrating an audacious plan designed to make jaws drop.

"Well, I received a rather hysterical telegram from him, not less than half an hour ago," Sherlock said dryly, "informing me of Clara's disappearing act, that she was about to ruin both of us, and Clara's powerful friend was threatening to disembowel her and every salientian creature connected to her. I of course corrected my dear brother, wiring I had rediscovered the joys of connubial bliss, Clara having very recently returned to my loving embrace. I also assured him I more than had the situation under control, and since then, I have thankfully heard no more from him. There is only so much Mycroft I can take, particularly at this time in the morning."

"Are you sure you've got everything under control?" Watson said, amused against his will at the predicament Sherlock was so unpredictably in, errant wives and all.

"Down to the furnishings," Sherlock said, unsteepling his fingers, "the bed is being changed right this moment, although, of course I shall be sleeping in my dressing room."

Watson pretended not to hear this particular domestic arrangement. "So what is she like, this wife you've been hiding?" he said, openly grinning now. "Seems a taking little thing – not quite what she appears to be either."

"She is dull and insipid," Sherlock snapped, not amused by Watson's amusement, "if rather learned and strangely resilient. Yet she has the temper of a she-devil and a tongue like a harridan. Do not be deceived by that demure exterior."

"I never was," Watson reminded him, "but you seem to be have been."

"Once," Sherlock admitted against his will, "but I quickly learned from that youthful mistake."

Watson just raised his eyebrows, before changing the subject, talking of prospective clients and their cases, but Sherlock was no longer listening, falling into a brooding reverie, only hearing Clara's broken melody.


	6. Books & Bees

**Books & Bees**

Sherlock silently seated Clara in a leather armchair in front of the fireplace, before stooping down and stoking the flames with the poker, the fabric of his discreetly checked tweed suit straining against his narrow shoulders. He was as leanly built as before, but during her long absence, he had acquired an almost unseen strength, possessing a swiftness of movement that startled.

"Well, I suppose congratulations are in order, then!" Mrs. Hudson trilled almost hysterically, pressing a glass of Madeira into Clara's hand, before sitting down across from her, Watson wincing at the sheer volume of her voice. The knowledge that Sherlock, the perennial byword for bachelor, had upped and got actually _married,_ had shocked Mrs. Hudson to the extent she'd had to sit down, suddenly feeling faint. It was like the world had turned upside down, even though Sherlock had reassured her everything would continue as before, that Clara wouldn't set herself up in housewifely opposition to Mrs. Hudson, leaving 221B Baker Street to her undoubtedly superior care.

"Thank you," Clara said quietly as Sherlock drew up a chair beside hers, before sitting down, alarming her by taking her other hand in his, the faint pressure of his fingers warning her not to pull away, that they had to play out this pantomime to the end.

"And to think I was closing the door on your face," Mrs. Hudson laughed nervously, before sipping some of her own Madeira, her teeth clinking against the glass. "What I don't understand is why you were there in the first place," she said suddenly, brow furrowing. "Why weren't you in the carriage" -

\- "The motion of the carriage wheels were making Clara unwell," Sherlock said smoothly, helping himself to some Scotch, letting go of Clara's hand, much to her relief. "So I suggested she dismount and walk the rest of the way – it was only a short distance to the house, a linear journey so to speak, with no chance of my misplacing my dear wife, not with the carriage dogging her every dainty footstep." He bestowed a fond smile upon Clara, who smiled weakly back, nursing her glass of Madeira with both hands now as a safeguard against any other displays of husbandly affection he might see fit to employ.

"The fresh air was most... reviving," Clara said with some difficulty, hoping Mrs. Hudson wouldn't remember the rest of their discourse and ask why Clara had been seeking an audience with her own husband.

"Are you increasing?" Mrs. Hudson said bluntly, casting Clara's abdomen a suspicious glance, making Sherlock nearly spit out his Scotch.

"Unfortunately that is a precious hope cherished but not yet fulfilled," Clara said primly, bitterly enjoying seeing the usually self-possessed Sherlock squirm.

"Let's hope I live long enough to dandle Sherlock's son on my old knee," Mrs. Hudson said, getting to her feet, "now I shall go and see about fixing up some sort of repast for you all. You must be famished after all that travelling."

"Absolutely ravenous," Clara fervently agreed, setting her glass of Madeira down on the table.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled, before sailing out of the room, leaving a terrible silence in her wake. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sherlock rounded on Clara, his pale face now puce. "A precious hope cherished but not yet fulfilled," he sing-songed, almost spitting the words, making her sound like some demented doll, "well, let me assure you, my dear woman, I have no intention of fulfilling such a hope" -

\- "And I have no intention of inflicting such a fate on the world," Clara spat back, "one insufferable bore is enough to contend with, never mind" -

\- "I may be many things but I am never boring," Sherlock said loftily, standing up, ignoring Watson's admonitory glance, "and no son of mine would be accused of the same sin."

"The apple never falls far from the tree."

"Well, I do not wish my daughters to be ninnies," Sherlock retorted, going over to the window, observing the bustling metropolis outside, "so if I am seized by the sudden and insane fancy to set up a nursery, it shall not be with you."

"If I desired my children to be otter-faced imbeciles, then such a decision on your part would send me spiralling to the depths of despair," Clara snapped, getting to her own feet in a rustle of serge skirts, "but as it stands, your words have uplifted me to almost ecstatic heights."

"I am so pleased," Sherlock smiled sarcastically, infuriating Clara further, making Watson turn away and top up his glass with some more Scotch, greatly needing it.

"Dear God, how I despise you," she hissed, balling her hands into fists.

"Then why on earth are you here?" Sherlock asked, pretending to examine his cuffs. "Why did you not take your destiny in your own hands and wrestle it into submission? A woman of spirit would have taken herself where her face was unknown and begun again, forging a past to start afresh" -

\- "I would have to be a woman of substance as well as spirit to engage in such an undertaking," Clara said from between gritted teeth, "and I also have no desire to live constantly glancing over my shoulder. On impulse, I came here for shelter, which you have promised to provide, and so here I shall... stay." She bowed her head, biting her lip, hating herself for being so submissive, for not fighting her fate, but she was exhausted in soul as well as body, sparring with Sherlock so fatiguing her even further.

"Well, regardless, if I had known you detested me so, I would have deposited you in the nearest boarding house," Sherlock said sardonically, "but unfortunately for you, our marriage is now set to be front-page news, so I urge to accept your fate with fortitude and dignity."

Clara just stared daggers at him, face completely bloodless, hate curdling within her heart.

Sherlock sighed heavily, the fight suddenly leaving him. "You know, it is a waste of time silently wishing me into the grave, Clara," he said tiredly, "and I would not suggest you seek alternative ways of winning widowhood – I am a very hard man to kill."

"I have a friend in Hertfordshire," Clara said suddenly, startling Sherlock, "a... a very dear friend. I... I suppose I could have sought shelter there but I did not want to bring such a storm to his doorstep. He is... he is not like you. He is poorly equipped – I mean, he only has knowledge of his books and bees." She smiled weakly at Watson, Sherlock not missing the tears now shining in her eyes, what they represented.

"I suppose this dear friend wanted to marry you, eh?" Sherlock said abruptly. "But I obstructed the fulfillment of yet another cherished hope, hmmm? Before or after Reichenbach?"

"During."

"Then why not accept his proposals?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "To the world and Watson here, I was deemed dead, so why not remarry?"

"I had to tell him I was too attached to the memory of my dear departed husband to entertain hopes of entering the marriage state again," Clara said coldly, face utterly devoid of emotion.

Sherlock studied her, his own face impassive, concealing his stormy cerebrations from her sight, still not understanding why his final thoughts before the fall had been of Clara standing before him whey-faced in her wedding dress, her dark eyes burning like black fire behind her lace veil. "I suppose my miraculous resurrection would have thrown the metaphorical spanner into the matrimonial works," he then said, steepling his fingers together.

Clara just _looked_ at him, her lips pursed together, an expression all too familiar to Sherlock. To her fury, he suddenly threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, I wish I could see this rival of mine," he said, "I wager he's a portly little fellow with a monocle, middle-aged from the day he was born."

"You are losing your touch, Sherlock," Clara said bitterly, "Alfred is six feet five inches in his stockings, has perfect vision and the soul of a child."

"You've seen him in his stockings?" Sherlock said, his amusement fading, now looking disapproving.

"No, but I've imagined him in them," Clara said smartly, making him suddenly roar with laughter again, before coming over to Clara, making her draw back from him.

"History has a bad habit of repeating itself, does it not?" he said quietly, hesitating before smoothing back her brown hair, old habits dying hard, his touch making her tense up, even as she reluctantly remembered craving it, like a dumb dog begging for a crumb of affection from a cruel master.

"Is that a lesson Irene Adler imparted to you?" Clara said, making him tense up in turn, the sound of Irene's name on her lips turning him to stone.

"Ah, The Woman," he said ruefully, recovering himself, "but do not fret, she was no threat to your place in my affections."

"But she has your respect when I do not," Clara said smartly, knowing he never had any affection for herself in the first place. "Perhaps even your heart" -

"I have no heart," Sherlock spat as Watson made a discreet exit, "I possess no such treacherous organ."

"I was jesting."

"You cannot jest your way out of this particular jape," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing. "Even as a child, you were always getting yourself into terrible scrapes, and I would have to get you out of them, hence my remark of history repeating itself."

"You were the one getting me into the scrape in the first place," Clara said stiffly, "including the one we're in now."

"It is indeed a rather spectacular scrape, isn't it?" he said, exhaling sharply. "Rather eclipses you getting stuck up that oak tree."

"Or you becoming trapped in that beer barrel," Clara said, shaking her head at the recollection, "or even that time my father caught you in my mother's best dress."

"I believe he was overwhelmed by my incandescent beauty," Sherlock pretended to ponder, before steering Clara back over to the leather armchair. "Here," he said, sweeping aside her glass of Madeira, before unstoppering the decanter of Scotch, "I think we both require a stiff drink. I suspect the occasion calls for it."


	7. The Stage Is Set

**Author's Note:** A modern-day AU one-shot of Sherlock/Clara titled _Throw Away Love & Golden Years_ can be found under the 'My Stories' section of my profile.

* * *

 **The Stage Is Set**

Clara's eyelids fluttered open, bruised blue from lack of sleep, having spent all night tossing and turning, unable to accept this latest turn of events, even as she'd orchestrated it all to her own bitter satisfaction. Sherlock had moved at a speed that never failed to astonish her, and she'd been installed in his bedroom, the monk-like cell taking on an alarmingly marital tone with the imposing four poster bed and its red velvet hangings more suited to a queen than a simple instructress.

Sherlock had slept in his dressing room, his sonorous snores ruining the still silence, a habit of his Clara had forgotten about before being abruptly reminded that evening. Flinching at the memory, she got up out of bed, pulling on his paisley-patterned dressing gown, its bohemian echoes at odds with his usually stark style. Padding over to his dressing room, she saw with little surprise he was already up and about in his shirt-sleeves, shaving in front of the sink, head tilted back, eyes almost appraising his reflection.

"What do you want?" he asked, no standing on ceremony, not even acknowledging her with his usual icy glance.

"Not you, that is for certain," Clara said coldly, folding her arms across her chest.

"A fact that can easily be divulged by our separate sleeping apartments," Sherlock said smartly. "Now why are you intruding on my early morning libations?"

"You do not need to labour the point," Clara said stiffly, making Sherlock finally look at her, a mocking grin tugging at his lips. "Oh, you are insufferable," she said, shaking her head, but a small smile crept along the corners of her own mouth, making matching dimples appear in her cheeks, something Sherlock had thought he'd forgotten about, believing that he'd disposed of such useless knowledge, only to realise with some disquiet he hadn't.

"Why are you here, Mrs. Holmes?" he reiterated, emphasizing her correct title, making Clara instantly stiffen.

"I apologize for disturbing you," she said, tilting her chin, "but I wish to know how you mean for me to pass my days. Again, I shall not interfere with your arrangements, but at the same time I do not wish to be idle. But as we now live under the same roof, I believe it is inevitable our activities will conflict in some way and I wish to avoid such a circumstance."

"I don't know," Sherlock said impatiently, "go and make messes in the kitchen. Kidnap a kitten. Go to church and pray for my stricken soul – just do not impede my way or my work."

* * *

Clara went out into the vestibule, dressed in yesterday's dull serge, her attempted improvements to it only serving to make it worse. But her face was clean, her boots polished, her hair neatly dressed, her appearance in order even if her soul wasn't.

"Hullo," Watson said, emerging from his room, having spent the night at 221B Baker Street rather than returning to his own home, something that had contributed to his own sleepless night, since he would have preferred the connubial comforts of his own bed than the single pallet Sherlock provided. But he couldn't confront the thought of facing his wife after another long absence, and so he'd slept alone, missing Mary even as he deliberately avoided her embrace.

"Your moustache is askew," Clara said smartly, making Watson's hand automatically fly up to his face.

"My moustache is real," Watson said, recovering himself, flushing hotly at humiliating himself by reacting so.

"Your gesture would prove otherwise," Clara said formally, pouring further coals atop his head. With that, she swept into the sitting room, only to stop short at the sight of a woman dressed in widow's weeds standing in front of the fireplace, her back turned to Clara. "Excuse me, can I help you?" she asked uneasily, clasping her hands in front of her, wondering if this could be classed as interfering in Sherlock's work.

"Don't mind her," Mrs. Hudson said, bustling through the doorway, ushering in a delivery boy, "she's just a case. Sherlock will be down presently."

Clara nodded, before suddenly noticing the piles of bandboxes and parcels piled up around the room, the sight making her do a double-take. "Why on earth are we in the midst of the General Post Office?" she asked, bewildered, catching sight of a label from an extremely high-brow ladies' clothing emporium.

"I took the liberty of ordering you new attire and its consequent accessories," Sherlock said as he abruptly entered the room. "How you must appreciate the modern miracle of ready-made dresses for the everyday woman such as yourself."

"But you do not know my measurements!" Clara hissed, colour beginning to bloom in her cheeks, the delivery boy shooting her a cheeky glance.

Sherlock coldly and deliberately took her in from top to toe, his gaze finally meeting hers, the mocking expression in his eyes infuriating Clara. "Oh, I know your... _measurements_ , sweetpea," he said, raising an eyebrow. "What kind of husband would I be, if I didn't?"

"You are an ass of the first order," Clara snapped, Mrs. Hudson hastily delivering the delivery boy out of the room, clipping him around the ear for his impertinence.

"And you are my wife and you shall be attired thus," Sherlock said, barely sparing a glance at the widow by the fireplace. "So you shall not insult my eyes by wearing something more suited to the workhouse than the wife of society's most eminent detective!"

"Most eminent _ass_ more like," Clara reiterated roughly, Sherlock catching a glimpse of the country girl she'd been, wrongfooting him for an unnerving moment. Instead, he flung open the curtains, letting more light into the gloomy sitting room, the sun's rays catching the hidden glints of gold in Clara's brown hair.

"Mrs. Hudson, there is a woman in my sitting room," Sherlock then shouted out into the vestibule, finally deigning to glance at the interloper, instantly noting how she sought to conceal her face, not just with a heavy veil, but with the way she was standing, deliberately facing the wall.

"There is a case awaiting your attention," Clara corrected him, picking up a dusty pile of books and depositing them on the scarred sideboard, the gesture purely done to ensure Sherlock's annoyance.

"What is with all the rumpus?" Watson said irritably, edging around Sherlock, who looked to be on the edge of an explosion at having not one, but two women in his sacred sitting room, widow and wife, all Sherlock secretly feared, having never sought the company of women, neither cultivating nor craving it.

"Apparently I have a client," Sherlock said with a flippant wave of his hand, "or so my wife informs me."

Watson raised his eyes heavenwards. "May I offer you a seat?" he then said to the widow, secretly noting she had a rather fine figure, prompting his gallant gesture.

The widow turned around to face him, the sight of her veiled countenance unnerving Watson, the dark drapery forming a black backdrop to where her features should feature.

"Mrs. Hudson, didn't you ask our guest why she was here!?" Sherlock yelled into the vestibule again, making Clara shake her head not for the first time at his lack of social skills.

"I did," Mrs. Hudson protested, her voice echoing oddly, "but what with the not talking, I didn't quite catch her reason for calling!"

At this, Sherlock slammed the door shut, losing what was left of his patience.

"Please sit down," Clara said to the widow, hastily interceding, making Watson take a grateful step back. "Would you like some tea?" she offered, the widow still standing by the fireplace, staring at Clara with unseeing eyes. But silence was all the answer Clara received, and she helplessly turned to Watson who just shrugged his shoulders, trying to disguise his discomfiture with indifference.

"Good morning," Sherlock said abruptly, steering Clara aside, standing in front of the widow instead, "I am Sherlock Holmes, this is my darling wife, Clara, and my esteemed friend and colleague, Dr. Watson," he said, gesturing to each astonished party in turn, "so pray introduce yourself and your intentions as I wish to understand why you are cluttering up my quarters. You may speak freely in front of them as they rarely understand a word – Watson more so than my wife."

The widow just stood there, hands folded neatly in front of her, strangely reminding Sherlock of Clara.

"But before you do," Sherlock said suddenly, circling the widow as he spoke, " _allow_ me make some trifling observations. You have an _impish_ sense of humour which you are currently deploying to _ease_ a degree of personal anguish. Despite your attire, you have recently _married_ a man of a seemingly kindly disposition, who has now _abandoned_ you for an unsavoury companion of rather _dubious_ morals. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope a _reconciliation_ might be possible. All this is perfectly _evident_ from your perfume."

"Perfume?" Watson said, raising an eyebrow.

"What did I say about them not understanding?" Sherlock muttered to himself, before half turning to Watson. "Yes, perfume," he repeated impatiently, "which brings insight to me and disaster to you." With one swift movement, he unpinned the widow's veil, only to reveal Mary's face, all pursed lips and angry eyes.

"Mary!" Watson exclaimed, starting forwards.

"John," Mary said, his name on her lips hitting him like a whip.

"Why in God's name are you pretending to be a client!?" Watson said, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Why did my wife pretend not to be my wife?" Sherlock said under his breath, picking up his violin, indicating for Clara to take a seat.

"Are you going to perform a private recital for me?" Clara said, reluctantly sitting down, wincing as John and Mary began to furiously argue.

"Just hush and listen," Sherlock ordered, before launching into his lament, making Clara sink further into her seat.

* * *

"Enough!" Sherlock exclaimed, setting down his violin, rounding on the still arguing John and Mary. They fell silent, Clara glancing up at Sherlock, her brow furrowing. "The stage is set, the curtain rises," he intoned, grey eyes growing distant, "we are ready to begin."

"Begin what?" Clara said, confused.

"Sometimes to solve a case one must first solve another."

"So you have a new case, then?"

"An old one," Sherlock said quietly, "very old. I shall have to go deep."

"Deep into what?"

"Myself," Sherlock said mystically, before suddenly whirling around, his voice losing all instances of ethereality. "Lestrade, do stop loitering by the door and come in," he barked, making Clara rise to her feet, folding her hands in front of her.

"How did you know it was me?" Lestrade said, stepping into the sitting room, face comically astonished.

"Regulation tread is unmistakable," Sherlock said, sounding bored, "lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson. I suppose you're here to pay your respects to my blushing bride."

"It's front-page news," Lestrade said, looking insulted, "you could have at least told an old friend first."

"We are friends?" Sherlock said, sitting down. "What a charming notion."

"Well, how do you do?" Lestrade said to Clara, bowing awkwardly at her, his face becoming flustered under the barrage of Sherlock's insults, his dark gaze darting wildly around the room.

"I do as well as I can under such startling circumstances," Clara said dryly, perching on the edge of Sherlock's armchair, only to start violently when he suddenly seized her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, sending shockwaves through her.

"As you can see, I am entranced by amour," Sherlock said, relishing the look of shock on Lestrade's face and Watson's also, "enslaved by emotion, betrayed by my treacherous heart."

"He's veritably tied to my apron strings," Clara said, trying and failing to detach her hand from Sherlock's vice-like grip.

"Well, I thought it was a joke," Lestrade said uncomfortably, pulling at his neck-tie, the sight of Sherlock's smoldering eyes devouring Clara unnerving him, making his gaze dart away again.

"As you observe, it is not," Sherlock said, letting go of Clara's hand, only to pull her onto his lap instead, affronting all pompous propriety while he was at it. "What brings you here during your off-duty hours other than to congratulate me on my nuptials?" he then asked Lestrade, his brow furrowing.

"How do you know I'm off-duty?" Lestrade said stupidly.

"Well, since your arrival you've addressed forty percent of your remarks to my decanter," Sherlock reeled off, glancing over at the corner in which it stood, silently tempting Lestrade to sin. "Watson, give the Inspector what he so clearly wants," he said, "and dear Mary, do sit down before you fall down." Watson promptly obeyed, Mary tilting her chin before doing the same, studying Clara with a long assessing stare that was more curious than hostile.

"Here you go," Watson said, hastily handing Lestrade the stiff drink he so obviously craved.

"Now what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, taking Clara's hand in his again, making her glare at him, a glare he parried with a pained grin.

"Who said anything happened?" Lestrade protested, waving his glass wildly through the air.

"You did," Sherlock said smartly, "by every means short of actual speech."

"Wait, Holmes," Watson said, halting him with his hand. "You have made a misdiagnosis."

"Then correct me, _Doctor,_ " Sherlock smiled, enjoying enraging Clara, sliding his arm around her waist, anchoring her to him.

"He didn't want a drink," Watson said, taking the now empty glass from Lestrade, "he _needed_ one. He's not embarrassed, he's _afraid_."

"My Boswell is learning," Sherlock said, his smile becoming positively Cheshire-like. "They do grow up so fast," he said in an undertone to Mary, who stifled a smile behind her hand, the gesture dangerously decorous, hiding the bite beneath.

"You must excuse my husband," Clara said to Lestrade through gritted teeth, "such connubial felicity has made him forget his manners."

"I never had any manners in the first place apart from what you drilled into my head with your incessant nagging," Sherlock said, his smile slipping at being corrected so.

"Pray take a seat, Inspector," Clara said shrilly, resisting the urge to wring Sherlock's neck.

"Yes, pray do," Sherlock said sarcastically, "and tell us why you are darkening my domestic idyll."


	8. Show You How

**Show You How**

"I don't mean to intrude," Lestrade said awkwardly, taking a seat, only to sit bolt upright again, clutching his rear end with both hands. "What devilry is that!?" he bellowed, jerking his chin at the grinning skull on his seat, its teeth filed into sharp points, perfectly positioned to bite an unsuspecting buttock.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, brow furrowing, "it's an oddity I've still yet to unravel."

"Here, let me," Watson interceded, hastily removing the skull to an obliging shelf. "If you please, Inspector," he said through gritted teeth, gesturing to the seat. "Another drink perhaps?"

"That's very kind of you," Lestrade said through equally gritted teeth, as he reluctantly sat down for the second time, watching Watson pour out some more brandy. "Thank you," he said, taking the glass from Watson, before raising it in Clara's direction. "Well, ah, congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Holmes," he said even more awkwardly, "may your, eh, union be long and fruitful."

"I hope so too," Clara said with a forced smile, all too aware of Sherlock's arm still around her waist. "Thank you for your felicitations, Inspector."

Lestrade inclined his head, relaxing into his seat slightly, feeling deceptively fortified by Sherlock's best brandy and Clara's good manners.

"May I?" Mary said to Watson, indicating the decanter with an elegant hand.

"At this time in the morning, dear wife?" Watson said, raising an eyebrow.

"Especially at this time in the morning, darling husband," Mary said with a sweet smile, "now, please proceed with the pouring."

Watson did as he was told, knowing better not to, pouring himself a glass at the same time. "Here you go, sweetling," he said with strained civility, handing Mary her glass. "Don't drink it all at once."

"The same logic applies to you, John," Sherlock said acerbically, eying his now greatly decreased decanter with some annoyance, having finished off the Scotch the day before. "I was saving that brandy for a special occasion."

"Doesn't your marriage qualify as such?" Lestrade said in disbelief.

Sherlock stared at him, startled. "My, you have bested me," he said with equal disbelief. "I must be losing my touch."

As Lestrade sat there, his mouth opening and closing like a bewildered trapdoor, Mary took up the reins of the conversation. "To happy marriages," Mary said with pointed wit, raising her glass, "especially at Christmas."

As Mary spoke, her eye caught Clara's, who didn't miss the singular gleam in the other woman's glance, nor her unspoken encouragement for Clara to speak up. "I'd like to thank you all for your good wishes," Clara said uneasily, raising her voice as the others raised their glasses again, "and for making me feel so welcome especially on such short acquaintance. So please let me take this moment to wish you all a merry Christmas, and may we have a prosperous and productive New Year."

Clara then awkwardly smiled round at everyone, feeling slightly foolish, wondering if she'd overdone it. But everyone, except unsurprisingly Sherlock, returned her greetings, Lestrade saying 'hear, hear' to her sentiments with peculiar warmth. But as she glanced over at Sherlock, she felt suddenly and strangely detached from the moment, oddly unable to reconcile her two worlds. She had fled a nightmare, only to awake in another existence, and the sensation was jarring, making Clara feel light-headed.

"Watson, my wife cannot make such declamations without a brandy in hand," Sherlock said coldly, his practiced eye traveling over Clara's pale face, "please remedy the situation."

"Certainly."

"Make haste, man!"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Watson poured Clara the last of the brandy, handing it to her with a forced smile. "Thank you," Clara said for the umpteenth time, her own good manners beginning to grate on her nerves, before delicately taking a sip, letting the liquor burn through her.

"Drink it slowly, darling," Sherlock admonished again as Clara made to take another mouthful, "you haven't breakfasted yet, and that particular beverage is lethal on an empty stomach. I don't want you flashing your ankles at our local constabulary." He inclined his head in Lestrade's direction, agate eyes flashing dangerously, having not missed the approving glances Lestrade had been aiming in Clara's direction, an approval that was now threatening to border on illicit admiration.

"I have no desire to expose my ankles to anyone other than you," Clara said coldly, setting the glass down on the spindly table that served for such purpose, " _especially_ since I don't perform the Can-Can before at least eleven o'clock."

"I await such an exhibition with baited breath," Sherlock said, finally extracting his arm from her waist, "especially when I literally have the best seat in the house."

"And wait you shall," Clara snapped, making to rise from Sherlock's knee, only for him to violently yank the back of her gown, forcing her to sit back down again. "What the deuce are you doing?" she hissed out of the corner of her mouth, the colour rising in her cheeks, everybody but Mary averting their eyes in embarrassment.

"Don't look so, sweet-pea, I just like having you by me," Sherlock said, suppressing a false yawn. "Plus, you're better than a gin jar," he then said cuttingly, "you're warming my knees rather nicely."

"Ah, those arthritic knees of yours," Clara said equally as cuttingly, resisting the urge to slap him, using her words as weapons instead, "one of the disadvantages of marrying a gentleman of increased years."

"I assure you this particular gentleman is in his prime," Sherlock flared up, his ego injured. "Furthermore, allow me to inform our audience I only have the advantage of a few years on your own rather aged state."

"I don't mean to be rude, but do you mind if we get to the heart of the matter?" Lestrade interrupted, nursing his now empty glass. "I'm sitting here for a reason, Sherlock, and it's not for decorative purposes, let me tell you that."

"And yet you look so fetching in that corner," Sherlock crooned, pulling out his pipe. "Judging by your strident tones," he then continued in his usual voice, eyes narrowing as he leaned over the arm of his seat, picking up a pinch of tobacco from inside the rather amusing brass representation of an Aladdinesque slipper sitting atop the table beside him, its pointed toe catching on the edge of his sleeve, "you have found yourself in a pickle, to use the rather common phrase."

"I would hardly call it a pickle" -

\- "Well, an alarming interlude you'd rather not be entangled in, then," Sherlock snapped, sprinkling the tobacco into his pipe, "but let me enlighten you on the advantages of fear, Lestrade. Fear is merely wisdom in the face of danger. It is nothing to be ashamed of."

Lestrade rather looked like he disagreed with this observation, but having learned from long experience with Sherlock that it was best to hold his tongue, he stayed mutinously silent.

"From the beginning, then," Sherlock prompted with exaggerated patience, lighting up his pipe as he spoke, the sharp strike of the match making Lestrade flinch.

"Well," Lestrade said nervously, tugging on his collar, before spreading his hands wide in unconscious illustration, "it begins with 'The Abominable Bride'..."

 _I got to tell you_  
 _I'll make it better_  
 _But I know there's something I needed to say..._


End file.
